


Deja Vu

by CaptainKenway



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Epic Bromance, Gen, JEFF!, pre-glade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainKenway/pseuds/CaptainKenway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the new Greenie enters the Glade, Clint is struck with deja vu. Is Chuck somehow related to Clint's unknown past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deja Vu

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, internet! So at some point I mention the characters in a pre-Maze Runner era. Those characters will still have their Glader names to avoid confusion. Enjoy!

“Put down the handsaw.”

Clint smirked at his fellow Med-Jack, tossing the handsaw from hand-to-hand under Jeff’s wary gaze.“But this is a new tool. We should be experts on all our medical supplies before using them.”

“One, the creators did not send that up as a medical tool,” Jeff said, squinted against the sun, “you took it. Two, I doubt we’ll ever even _need_ a handsaw. Three—”

“We can never predict our medical emergencies,” Clint interrupted.

“Your obsession with amputations needs to stop,” Jeff said. “Seriously, people will think you’re deranged.”

“It’s not an obsession,” Clint protested. “I’m preparing myself.”

“For when the only way to save a Glader is through acrobatic amputations?”

Clint smiled innocently at Jeff’s raised eyebrow, tossing the handsaw higher. “People don’t call Minho is obsessed with running the Maze.”

“That’s literally his job,” Jeff said.

“This is my job.”

“Minho doesn’t do flips through the Maze.”

“That we know of.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Come on, Clint. The Box is coming up. We’re getting a new Greenie today.”

“But—”

“Leave the handsaw.”

Clint sighed heavily.

“...Or just loop it on your belt.”

Clint brightened. “We can never be too careful. This thing might come in handy.”

“Try not to scare the Greenie,” Jeff cautioned as they began their trek to the Box.

Clint gasped, placing his hand across his heart. “Would I do something like that?”

“Shuck, don’t do dramatic hand motions with a saw in your hand,” Jeff reprimanded. “Why you’re the Keeper of the Med-Jacks I’ll never know.”

“Whoa, wow, insubordination,” Clint said. “I’m hurt. I thought I could rely on you. My favorite Med-Jack...”

“I’m the only other Med-Jack.”

“My number two, numero dos, Jeff the Chef.”

“Not a chef, klunkface,” Jeff interrupted.

“Details,” Clint dismissed.

“I think Frypan would disagr—oh there’s the Greenie.”

Clint followed Jeff’s point. A short figure emerged from the pack of Gladers. The Greenie’s curly hair stuck out wildly as his head swiveled back and forth. A sudden rush of familiarity made Clint blink.

“He’s handling the Glade well,” Clint forced out.

“You mean he hasn’t run off in terror?”

Clint’s heart thumped rapidly in his chest. Jeff remained oblivious. “Pretty much.”

“That is always a good sign,” Jeff agreed. “Come on, let’s say hey. He looks like the youngest one here. He’s probably terrified.”

Clint followed his friend, studying the Greenie. Something about the Greenie unnerved Clint. He was oddly familiar, like a distant memory. But from before the Glade. Clint narrowed his eyes. He didn’t trust him.

“Hey-o Greenie,” Jeff greeted. The chubby boy jerked towards them. “I’m Jeff and this is Clint. We’re Med-Jacks. Even though hopefully you won’t need us that much—”

Clint openly gawked at the Greenie. He was so...young. His brown eyes widened in a familiar—foreign—way as he took in everything Jeff was saying. Clint clamped down on his urge to sit the Greenie down and tell him everything. Anything to make him look less panicked. But that wasn’t the way of the Glade.

As if on cue, Newt whisked the Greenie away to give him the tour. Clint belatedly realized he was still staring after the Greenbean when Jeff cleared his throat.

“Let’s make sure the Slicers still have all their fingers, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

**Compassion**

Clint shifted in his hammock, the Greenie niggling the back of his mind. Clint had been in the Glade for a while now. He’s seen his share of Greenbeans, but none had gotten under his skin as quickly as this one. He was tempted to tell someone—Jeff, Alby, Newt—about the weird vibe he got from the newbie.

But he didn’t want to be the idiot who caused a fuss because of a _feeling_. Even though he was sure Jeff would be supportive. Confused, but supportive. Clint wished he could just shake his distrust of the Greenie, but Clint long ago learned to be wary of anything new. And this déjà vu Greenie was certainly new.

Clint huffed and rolled out of his hammock. He couldn’t sleep with his mind reeling. Should he avoid the Greenie? Observe first and then interact? It wasn’t the Greenie’s fault (probably) that he gave off a weird vibe. Maybe Clint did the same thing to him...not that the Greenie would know since this entire place was a bit of a shock to the system.

A sob jerked Clint’s attention to the fire pit.

Where the Greenie was sitting. Alone.

Shuck. The Greenie’s wet face reflected dully in the moonlight. Shuckity shuck. All Greenies reacted badly to the Glade at first. And this one was crying in front of him.

Clint wasn’t aware that he approached the Greenie until the boy’s red face glanced up at him.

The boy scrubbed his cheeks, obviously trying to hide the fact he was crying.

He should probably say something.

“Amazing place, isn’t it?”

The Greenie blinked at him. Not that Clint blamed him. One, the Greenie hadn’t been in the Glade long enough to appreciate the pun. Two, Clint used a shucking _pun_ as an icebreaker. Three, how the shuck was that question supposed to comfort the Greenie who Clint had previously decided to possibly avoid?

“Because the Glade is in a giant maze.”

The Greenie’s mouth dropped, his wet eyes darting to the looming walls.

“So amazing is a stupid joke me and Jeff use and—that’s not important.” Clint was babbling and probably not helping the Greenie’s emotional state. “How are you?”

Clint mentally cringed. Yes, ask the crying person how they are. Brilliant plan, Clint.

“I know all this,” Clint plowed on, cutting off the Greenie’s—probably teary—response, “can be overwhelming. I wouldn’t stop wailing for days when I first got up here. Course there were only about ten other people up here so they were a bit more impatient with me. More work, less people and all that. Which is understandable. Minho and Newt were running the Maze then so that was two less people to fix up the Glade.”

“They run the maze?” the Greenie broke in.

Clint glanced up. The Greenie’s teary gaze was replaced by a curious one. “Yep, trying to solve it. Newt doesn’t run anymore after his accident.”

“In the maze?”

Clint wasn’t imagining that tone of fear. “Yeah, but only special people—the Runners—go out into the Maze. You’ll get your job later this week.”

“So I won’t be a Runner?”

Clint smirked slightly at the Greenie’s wide eyes. “Nah, not unless they need new Greiver bait.”

The Greenie sucked in a quick breath.

Shucking slinthead. He was a shuckface, an inconsiderate shuckface. What was wrong with him? Clint could see tears beginning to surface again. Shuck the Greenie was just a kid. Why was he here? Why was Clint klunk at comforting him?

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Clint said quickly, wrapping an arm around the Greenie. The boy promptly buried his head into Clint’s shoulder. Clint found himself surprisingly okay with being used as a snot rag. He gently rocked back and forth.

“I’m just so scared,” the Greenie breathed.

“We’ve all been scared,” Clint murmured. “We’re all shucking terrified. You get used to it. I know it’s hard to believe but you do. Work makes it better. People make it better.”

“Everything’s so different,” the Greenie sniffled, “and I don’t know anything. Everything is a blank.”

Clint had practice at ignoring the gap in his life before the fateful Box opened. But the Greenie was new. The overwhelming abyss is more terrifying when you don’t have Glade skills and memories to compensate for it.

“That’ll change soon,” Clint said, rubbing the Greenie’s back. His shoulders were no longer trembling, but the Greenie still burrowed into him. Clint didn’t question it. He also clamped down on the warm feeling spreading through him. It was really no surprise. He liked helping people. It was why he became the first Med-Jack. “Once you get used to the Glade. Remember, the Gladers are here to help you. We’ve all been in your shoes. We’re going to get through this shuckhole. Together.”

Brown eyes peered up at him. “Really?”

Clint smiled softly. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Greenie.”

“Not Greenie,” the boy shook his head, his curls hitting Clint’s chin. “Chuck.”

“Nice to meet you, Chuck,” Clint said.

Chuck grinned back, before he suddenly seemed to be aware of their positions. Chuck leaned out of Clint’s embrace, coughing slightly. Clint ignored the tiny twinge that coursed through him.

“You too...Clint?”

He nodded.

“Well, uh thanks, I guess,” Chuck stammered. “I appreciate you helping me out even though you have no idea who I am.”

“We’ve all been there,” Clint replied. That’s definitely the only reason. “I wanted to help a fellow Glader.”

“Cool,” Chuck said. “Well, I guess I’ll try to sleep now.”

“See ya, Chuck.”

“See you...glader.”

Clint twisted towards Chuck, his mouth gaping open. Chuck pressed his lips together, suppressing laughter. “Dude, that was awful.”

Chuck giggled—shucking giggled! “Not as amazing as yours, I see.”

The smug gleam in Chuck’s eyes was _not_ endearing. “I’m leaving.”

Chuck’s cackles brought a satisfied grin to Clint’s face as he trudged back to the hammocks.

 

**Protective**

Clint was carrying a bucket of water past the Homestead when he heard it.

“I give him three weeks,” Winston said, twirling his knives around. Clint restrained himself from lecturing him about knife safety and valuable digits again.

“An extra helping of Fry’s food says two,” Gally countered.

Fry raised an indignant eyebrow. “And who says you can get an extra helping of my cooking, shank? Setting aside the fact two weeks is too generous.”

“What are we betting?” Clint interrupted, “and at least try to be creative. Why bet food when you can bet chores?”

Winston threw an arm around Clint’s shoulder. “This is why we should always include Clint in the betting pool.”

Clint flexed. “Because I’m awesome?”

“More like cocky and I always enjoy seeing you labor in front of me.”

Winston dodged Clint’s elbow with a laugh.

“Shuckface,” Clint muttered.

“I’m down for trading chores,” Frypan said. “I want some kitchen slaves.”

“I want to see Fry do some actual labor and help carry bricks around,” Gally said, smirking at Fry’s affronted expression.

“What are we betting?” Clint said, interrupting Fry’s retort.

“How long the Greenie will last in the Glade,” Winston said.

Clint froze, cocking his head. “Chuck?”

His strained tone went unnoticed to all except Winston, whose amused expression vanished.

“Yeah,” Fry said, “we have one, two, and three weeks. What do you say, Clint?”

“You’re betting whether or not Chuck will live or not,” Clint stated, his hands tightening into fists.

“Have you not seen him?” Gally asked. “He’s klunk at all the jobs. You should’ve seen him try to help the builders.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Clint hissed.

Gally’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with _you_? You act like this is the first time we’ve done this. Newsflash: You and I were the first people to bet how long Gladers would last in the Glade. We’ve both seen how many people broke.”

Clint’s stomach twisted. He had been behind most of the Glade’s betting pools, ranging from the next person Gally pinned in the sand ring to how long a Greenie would sob after his first night. But them betting on Chuck...insisting that he was pathetic. It made Clint want to lash out and break their noses.

“Chuck isn’t a worthless pile of klunk, shank.”

“Care to wager on that?” Gally said. “How much longer do you think he’ll cry himself to sleep? Which job do you think he’ll get? How long do you think he’ll last in this place before completely breaking down?”

Winston and Fry’s arms restrained him from shoving Gally. Clint tried to wiggle out of their grasp. No luck. Shucking hell.

“Let me go.” He went ignored.

Fry tightened his grip around Clint’s arm, staring at a surprised Gally. Gally shifted his gaze to Clint’s clenched jaw with a furrowed brow. “Cool it, Gally.”

Gally nodded stiffly. “Sorry, Clint.”

“Whatever,” Clint said, shaking off Winston and Fry’s hands. “I need to get water.”

He felt the Gladers stare after him.

“What’s up with Clint?” Winston asked.

“He’s attached to the Greenie,” Gally said. “Hope that doesn’t come back to bite him.”

Clint’s knuckles whitened over the bucket’s handle. Shanks. Chuck wasn’t worthless. None of the Gladers had skills when they first exited the Box. Clint knew klunk about medical care yet here he was. Chuck was young, not stupid. Those slintheads would see.

He caught sight of the familiar bush of curls.

“Hey, Chuck!” Clint called. Chuck’s face instantly brightened. “Has anyone shown you one of the best pranks? It scares the klunk out of people.”

“Awesome,” Chuck said. “Where are we going?”

“Klunk house.”

 

**Worry**

“Let’s be real,” Jeff said, “we both knew this trip was long overdue.”

Clint nodded. “We haven’t been to the Slicers for what? Two days?”

“We should be impressed with their perseverance,” Jeff said. “I feel like they’re actually learning how important their fingers are.”

“You don’t mean to say that they’re actually being _cautious_ , do you?” Clint gasped.

“They were,” Jeff said, “but they fell back on old habits apparently.”

“Shame,” Clint said. “They would make our job easier if they stopped nicking their hands.”

“Would we even have a job without them?” Jeff mused.

Clint hummed thoughtfully as he pushed open the door to the slaughter house. Pigs squealed in greeting. “Probably not. If we ever get bored should we just try to convince Winston to take on more help?”

“Winston would probably decline,” Winston said. “Come on, he’s over here.”

“Winston shouldn’t talk in the third person,” Jeff reprimanded.

“It’s very pretentious,” Clint agreed. “Who are we treating, anyway?”

Winston’s gazed flickered toward Clint briefly. “Chuck. He was helping out here today. He’s—uh—not skilled with the knife.”

Clint mutedly realized that Jeff was asking Winston where Chuck cut himself and other medical-related questions Clint should probably be spewing. But Clint was concentrating on not running towards Chuck and calming his racing heart.

Chuck shouldn’t need their help. He’s only been here a little over a week. He shouldn’t be shucking injured. Winston was usually good at monitoring Greenies for precisely this reason. Greenies shouldn’t be deemed competent enough to wield deadly blades. Shuck what if Chuck cut off a finger? Not that a finger was necessary for life but _shuck_ Chuck didn’t deserve any disadvantage.

They rounded a corner and Clint was met with a wave of relief and frustration to see Chuck laughing with another Slicer.

“You okay, Chuck?” Jeff asked gently.

“Where’d you cut yourself?” Clint asked gruffly. He ignored Jeff’s raised eyebrow. Chuck meekly held out his cut hand, his grin dimming. Clint grasped and inspected it. The shallow cut across his palm was already clotting. Clint let out a relieved sigh. Always a good sign.

“Won’t scar over, I’m afraid,” Jeff said. “But you’ll look badass for a week or so.”

Chuck preened. “Really?”

“What were you doing when you cut yourself?” Clint asked bluntly.

“What?” Chuck bulked. Maybe Clint’s tone had been slightly more accusatory than he originally meant. “I didn’t do it on _purpose_. It just kind of happened.”

“It’s a long cut to just ‘kind of happen,’” Clint mocked.

Chuck’s face flushed. “It was an accident.”

“Clint,” Jeff said warningly, “let’s wrap the hand first, yeah?”

Clint licked his lips, taking in Chuck’s glare and Jeff and Winston’s frown. Shuck. Chuck made him irrational. “Right, yeah.”

Chuck’s hand was bandaged in stony silence, only broken by Jeff and Winston’s attempts to add levity. The curly headed boy vanished as soon as Clint finished wrapping his hand.

“You alright?” Jeff asked.

Clint tore his gaze away from the door Chuck vanished through without a backwards glance. Chuck was pissed at him and Clint wished that Chuck’s tantrum—that may have been caused by Clint being a paranoid, concerned Med-Jack, but details—didn’t make him feel like a piece of klunk.

“Yeah, fine.”

 

**Jealousy**

The new Greenie’s name was Thomas. As per Glader tradition, the last Greenie acted as this Greenie’s guide/mentor/companion. Clint knew this.

Yet why did he have to fight the urge to scorn everything Thomas did?

Maybe because Thomas seemed to require coddling from every corner, from Newt and Alby to even Chuck. Chuck didn’t know much more than Thomas, so why did he insist on being Thomas’ constant shadow? Thomas seemed more irritated than anything.

Then Thomas shucking went into the Maze. At night. In an attempt to “save” Minho and Alby. Admittedly, even Clint’s distain for Thomas vanished when the Maze doors shut. No one deserved to be Greiver food. But Clint would eventually question Thomas’ intelligence after a few days when the Greenie’s death was less fresh. Gally would support him. His complete lack of sympathy for anyone who broke the rules was legendary.

Then the shuckface managed to survive. And everyone, especially Chuck, was ecstatic.

It didn’t help that Jeff seemed to be—after Chuck—Thomas’ biggest fanboy. Clint was tired of constantly seeing Thomas and Chuck spend their free time together—Chuck even showed Thomas the prank _Clint_ introduced Chuck to—talking about shuck knows what.

They needed to slim it.

It shouldn’t hurt that Chuck spent all his time with Thomas, insisting he had no friends in the Glade.

It shouldn’t hurt that Chuck barely looked his way now, his eyes too full of hero worship to notice anyone but Thomas.

He knew Chuck for a little more than a month. It’s not like they were close anyways.

Clint turned away from the table Chuck and Thomas occupied, bitterly listening as Jeff and Zart talked about Thomas killing a griever. Thomas could go shuck himself for all Clint cared. Chuck would probably help.

 

**Grief**

The gunshot echoed through the lab. Clint flinched, his eyes flying open at Thomas’ anguished “Chuck!”

Clint’s heart dropped. He felt his heart pulse loudly through his head as he reached to grab onto Jeff. Winston was there instead. Clint suppressed a shudder, his grip tightening on Winston’s shoulder.

He stared as Chuck’s blood pooled around the curly-headed boy.

Why?

Tears blurred his vision as Chuck pressed something in Thomas’ hand, Chuck’s words gurgling as blood spewed out of his mouth.

Shucking why?

Chuck stopped breathing.

Sobs wracked through his body. Jeff’s death was like losing a limb. Jeff had been with Clint since practically the beginning. And that shank had to hang onto his noble streak. He sacrificed himself for Minho. That shucking lovely idiot. Clint wiped his eyes uselessly.

And the noble streak was contagious.

Chuck sacrificed himself for Thomas. Clint met Chuck a month and a half ago. Theoretically, his death shouldn’t affect him as much. But Clint felt hollow like a vital piece of him was missing.

Clint was pressed up between Fry and Winston and he never felt so alone.

A light suddenly flooded through a door. Clint blinked past tears to focus on adults ushering them outside. Clint was herded with the rest of the Gladers, glancing back at Chuck’s prone body.

Chuck didn’t deserve to die. Chuck was so close to freedom, only to have it snatched away at the impossible last second. Chuck deserved more than this. Jeff deserved more than this.

Clint knew that he should be more concerned with the screaming adults, but he was too drained—they all were. He would mourn now and think about their escape later. Clint stared dully outside the window, his eyes widening as he was met with miles and miles of sand.

All the fallen Gladers deserved to see this and know there was a world outside the Glade.

This freedom felt empty without Jeff and Chuck.

Clint’s sobs during the bus ride went largely uncommented.

 

**Four Years Earlier**

The scuff of slippered feet made Clint warily crack an eye. Clint’s hand slowly fell to the side of his bed to grip his steel bat.

“Clint?” a harsh whisper pierced the air.

Clint instantly relaxed, dropping the bat to turn on his lamp. He quickly covered his relief with an annoyed frown as he turned towards his little brother.

Chuck smiled sheepishly. “Hi.”

“Why are you creeping through my room at ass’o clock in the morning? I thought you were a fucking crank that managed to sneak in.”

Chuck frowned. “I feel like a crank would be more noticeable. Subtlety isn’t really their strong suit.”

“Whatever,” Clint dismissed. “Still not a valid reason to be a creeper.”

“Not even if I crank up the—”

“I swear to God if this is another bad Crank pun, I’ll throw you to Crank City.”

Chuck’s eyes widened. Clint smirked. “You wouldn’t dare. Mom won’t let you.”

“Mom is already dropping us off at Wicked for some Flare cure experiment,” Clint said. “I doubt she’ll notice.”

Chuck bit his lip. “Really?”

Chuck’s meek tone possibly made a wave of guilt course through him. Even with Clint as an awesome older brother, Chuck didn’t always catch Clint’s sarcasm. Clint was quick to reassure. He hated when Chuck’s face was anything but beaming. “Mom loves us, Chuck. She’s only sending us to Wicked because she knows we’ll have more protection from the Flare and Cranks.”

Chuck was quiet for a minute, his eyes darting everywhere that wasn’t Clint. “Is Mom turning into a Crank?”

Clint froze.

That was enough.

Clint tugged Chuck forward as Chuck’s face crumpled. Tears were spilling down his cheeks and Clint sat Chuck in his lap, nuzzling his curls.

“It’s okay. Mom’s okay,” Clint murmured, rocking Chuck back and forth. “She just wants us to be cared for. She knows Wicked will do that. Mom’s happy for us.”

“We’ll never see her again,” Chuck sobbed.

“She pulled strings to get us with Wicked,” Clint said, blinking rapidly. “She wants us to be safe.”

“B-but she’s going to die,” Chuck whispered.

Clint felt his eyes well over. He knew for a while his mom was suffering from the Flare. She made him promise to keep Chuck in the dark—their dad’s death was still too fresh. But Clint had refused to let himself think about his mom transforming into a crank for too long.

“I know, Chuckie,” Clint said softly, feeling hot tears slide down his face.

Chuck burrowed closer to Clint. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Clint felt a pang in his chest at Chuck’s broken voice. He tightened his arms around his little brother. “You won’t be alone. You’ll have me.”

Chuck sniffed.

“We’re going to Wicked together,” Clint said. “We’re going to be joined by the hip. I don’t care what the scientists say.”

His brother wetly gazed at him under his curls. “Really?”

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

 


End file.
